


We Speak Like Savages

by azulaahai



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (OR IS IT!?), (no it's not c'mon), (sort of), Canon Divergent AU, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Marriage, Mutual Pining, Political Marriage, Romance, Tenderness, but hey this is something, it's a-me and I barely write fic anymore, post-canon AU, very tender and fluffy for these trying times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:34:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24951646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azulaahai/pseuds/azulaahai
Summary: Sansa doesn’t say it.It’s at the tip of her tongue and the forefront of her mind, yet she cannot bring her lips to form the words, to unleash this naked and horrifying truth on the world.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 20
Kudos: 196





	We Speak Like Savages

**Author's Note:**

> What's cooking? I don't write much fic these days, have some sappy fluff with a side order of angst and go easy on me.
> 
> Sincerely hope you're all doing well, stay safe.
> 
> *I recently read "Written on the Body" by Jeanette Winterson and it was absolutely lovely, unapologetically romantic, and it inspired me a great deal. Please note this fic's title and the opening quote are both from this novel.

_”Why is it that the most unoriginal thing we can say to one another is still the thing we long to hear? ’I love you’ is always a quotation. You did not say it first and neither did I, yet when you say it and when I say it we speak like savages who have found three words and worship them.”_ \- J. W.*

* * *  


Sansa doesn’t say it.

It’s at the tip of her tongue and the forefront of her mind, yet she cannot bring her lips to form the words, to unleash this naked and horrifying truth on the world.

She doesn’t say it when he wakes up before her, and nuzzles his nose in his hair and everything is drowsy in the gentlest of ways. 

She doesn’t say it when he’s been sparring with the wards in the courtyard, and he comes to sit by her with a rare grin on his face. 

She doesn’t say it over supper, when they discuss matters great and small in low voices and Sansa has that feeling, the conviction that she is thoroughly understood, seen. 

She doesn’t say it towards the end of the day in the quiet of their chambers, when she reads to him from Arya's letters and the hearth sets his silhouette aglow.

* * *

Jon says it, as best he knows how.

He says it with a set of wildflowers he happened upon while out riding, handing them over somewhat embarrassed, feeling young. 

He says it by finding her gaze as he enters a room, both with interest and to inquire. _Are you alright?_

He says it by welcoming the ravens from the South himself, to be the one handing over Arya’s letters to Sansa’s waiting hands himself, to see her eyes light up.

He says it by asking her to ride out with him.

He says it by never teasing her when she says no, but maybe some other day. Every day.

* * *

Sansa still doesn't say it. 

She still doesn't say it, even when they disagree in harsh whispers behind their closed chamber door, keen to not let others see the lord and lady arguing, and the debate gets heated and their tones sharp and they breathless and for a moment they just look at each other, in silence, mutual gaze never breaking.

She still doesn't say it, even when he walks in on her struggling to balm the scars on her back and gently, with a thick voice, insists on helping her.

She still doesn’t say it, even when she catches him playing hide and seek with Little Sam in the courtyard, stammering and muttering something about how ”it was only for a brief moment” when he spots her watching them, a grin across her face.

She still doesn’t say it, even when she finally agrees to ride out with him, and he dares her to race him back to the stables, and despite her being an unenthusiastic rider he lets her win.

* * *

Jon says it as best he knows how, but he’s unsure if it’s enough.

He’s unsure if stroking her back is enough when she wakes up screaming.

He’s unsure when he finds her in the crypts where Ned lies, where Robb so very clearly does not lie, if there is anything at all he can say.

He’s unsure for a moment, when the spring snow falls and she hurls a snowball at his back, and he turns around to find her laughing, radiant and regal in a cape of her own making, how he could ever have been meant to lead this life.

He’s unsure when Arya finally comes back home and looks at them with knowing glances, unsure just what she knows.

* * *

When Sansa says it it’s completely by accident.

She blurts it out on no-night-in-particular, in the chill of their bedchamber, beneath the furs, when he’s breathing slowly beneath her and is probably fast asleep.

Three words she has been aching to say.

They are surprisingly easy to form, in the end. They come without effort or intent.

Three words that taste of summer berries and Arbor gold.

He responds only with a sleepy sigh.

* * *

When Jon says it, it’s carefully planned. 

He says he has something to tell her. Immediate fright in her eyes, she has become fluent in bad news, and he reaches out a hand for her but lowers it again.

It’s more a pained confession than affectionate remark, when he finally says it. But the words slip off his tongue and when he says them he can feel the weight of them, sense the absolute truth in them.

* * *

There comes a little while when they can’t stop saying it, like a babe that has learnt it first words and repeats it over and over, delighted at the sound and at being heard.

Three words in the morning, at noon, during supper, in the dead of night.

  
Three words whispered. Three words nearly shouted. Three words followed by gentle lips on her forehead. Three words through gritted teeth.

Three words in front of Sam and Gilly and Brienne and Arya, constantly, endlessly, who all go from utter delight to strained politeness to barely-concealed annoyance at hearing them say it.

Three words when he rides for the Gift, and they must say goodbye for the first time since they wed.

Three words in every letter. 

Three words in the strange dreams she has, blurry and soft and with contents not fit to repeat.

Three words before the heart tree.

Three words whispered on a late-night walk out into the cold bite of early spring nights, just to remember.

Three words in his head as he gallops home, three words to the steady rhythm of hooves against dirt.

Three words, finally, deliciously, in the courtyard, open arms and watering eyes.

And then, there, in the courtyard, Sansa has something else to say.

Winterfell is asleep around them, the courtyard lit by torchlight. A slim moon keeps a watchful eye on them as Sansa pulls back a little. Jon steps away, searching her eyes for answers.

She grabs his glove-clad hand. 

Guides it, steadily, beneath her cloak, to place it on her belly through the thick fabric of her gown.

Looks back up at him in the dimness of the night.

Holds his hand there.

It takes him a moment to understand. 

Sansa watches his face intently, regards him as he goes from bewilderment to doubt to rampant realisation.

In the end, she doesn’t need to say a word.


End file.
